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How To Tell You’ve Transitioned, Part II

Categories: all about me, how to tell if you've transitioned

I had a kinda frantic day today–spent all day trying to get some SQL to behave correctly, even though the task should have been pretty easy to do. Plus I was late for my therapy appointment–even with catching a cab.

As I was coming up out of the subway, a panhandler asked me for some money; and as I was walking away, he said “You have a nice day ma’am–sir–ma’am.” (I’m assuming he saw either my boobs or my lipstick and that pushed him over the edge.)

I wasn’t particularly happy to hear that, but I wasn’t terrifically surprised either. I was dressed for work, when you work from home: a black tee, jeans, and sneakers. As I was walking away, I thought to myself, you’ve forgotten how to be a girl.

I am much less enlightened in the dark recesses of my mind than I am in print.

But there has been a change in how I present myself over the two years of my fulltime life; there was a time when I always wore eye makeup when I went out, and gave much careful thought to what I was going to wear. Nowadays, not so much; I’ve even gone out without wearing any lipstick, something I’d been avoiding ever since I got read when not wearing it.

A little of this is the weight I’ve put on, and being too broke to buy new clothes and too unmotivated to try and lose weight. But a lot more is simply that I’ve reached a new point of stability with my life; that my acceptance of myself as a woman means that I need fewer and fewer reinforcements via the trappings of femininity. (That, and a year of pounding concrete sidewalks; that gets you out of heels really quick.)

Three years ago, in the middle of my dark winter of discontent when I began to seriously consider the idea of transitioning, I would sometimes ask myself (as a way to not transition) what the difference was between hanging around my apartment in my PJ bottoms and a tee as a man and doing the same as a woman; the idea being that my life would be the same whether or not I transitioned, so why transition? I think I know that answer better now; it’s because now I’m free of the doubts about whether I should transition, the doubts about whether or not I really was a woman, the awful amount of psychic energy I dumped into worrying about that problem. And a lot of those issues are gone now, and overall (when I’m not fighting off major depressive crises), I have a lot more energy to think and do things–case in point, this blog, started a year after I transitioned. Even if I have forgotten how to be “a girl,” however it was that I construed living inside the public tokens of femininity.

Being a woman–a person–is a lot more satisfying anyway.

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Hiram Monserrate Watch

Categories: hiram monserrate watch

Sometimes, you get a win:

The political fate of State Senator Hiram Monserrate, a Queens Democrat convicted of assault in a dispute that left his companion with a gash on her face, grew uncertain on Thursday as a special committee recommended that the Senate vote soon on a motion to expel him.[…]

The special committee formed after the trial concluded that Mr. Monserrate lied about the dispute and demonstrated “a lack of fitness to serve in this body.”

The report says that he recklessly put his interests above the safety of Ms. Giraldo and was insincere in his apology. “Whether the senator was worried for his political future or not, the evidence demonstrates both recklessness and callousness,” the committee wrote.

“Accordingly,” the report said, “the select committee recommends that Senator Monserrate be sanctioned by the full Senate, and that the Senate vote to impose one of two punishments: Expulsion, or in the alternative, censure with revocation of privileges.”

 Now, the New York State Senate is the most useless legislature since the steering committee of th Mesopotamian Pot-Washer’s Guild tried to formalize which pots they would, in fact, wash, and the most corrupt legislature since…well…since ever, I think.

What I’m saying is that if these guys think you can’t sit with them, you really have to be an asshole.

Like Monster Rat QED.

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BTB: Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

Categories: Uncategorized

It’s Below the Belt time again!

I call myself transfeminist, because I identify as trans (with a little help from our wonderful society which does so much to keep me from forgetting it) and feminist. Usually this isn’t a problem: I identify as a woman, and  feminism is about furthering the causes and rights of women, and I am. so. there.

But at the same time it has to be acknowledged that feminism and transgender activism often have found themselves in at best an uneasy alliance, and at worst completely divorced from each other. A certain strain of radical feminism (see: Heart, Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival, and my friends at AROOO) maintain a richly transphobic tradition of never seeing trans women as women (or trans men as men, for that matter; that’s why so many trans men have had no problem getting into MWMF), using such all-time hits as “mutilated men,” “colonizers,” and still number one with a bullet, “rapists.” (I always like that one. I once went looking for statistics on how many trans women get raped a year. The numbers proved very elusive–it seems most trans victims are either killed instead of being raped, or killed right after being raped.)

 Mach schnell!

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The Patriarchy Doesn’t Exist And Other Comforting Fictions For Hard Times

Categories: double bound, i heart oppression, invasive kyriarchy, privilege stories, supremely sexist

It’s comforting to tell ourselves that a lot of the battles that feminists have fought are finally over, and we’re in the mop up stage. It seems undeniable that attitudes have indeed improved since the days of the pre-Second Wave; one sees more and more female executives, attorneys, and doctors (though not nearly enough) than ever nowadays, and even my D&D book uses the female pronoun as often as the male pronoun in the text.

When D&D hops the equality train, that’s progress.

So we can tell ourselves that women are finally (at least in the West) moving out of the shadow of men, begin to truly have autonomy: that what Elizabeth Gilbert says below is indeed happening, and more than that, is being successful:

…Gilbert says, we’re still in the midst of a radical new social experiment.
“And the radical, unprecedented new social experiment is: What happens if we give women autonomy, education, finances, you know, control over their sexual biology?” she says. “What happens if we give you all this freedom? What are you going to do with it? … And we’re all still sort of puzzling it out in a very intense way.”

 And then you open your browser or flip through a newspaper and all that comes crashing down around you, and you see it for the papier-mâché construct it truly is. Like when you read this:

Before the first juror is selected or witness called, a decision allowing a confessed killer to argue he believes the slaying of one of the nation’s few late-term abortion providers was a justified act aimed at saving unborn children has upended what most expected to be an open-and-shut case.

Some abortion opponents are pleasantly stunned and eager to watch Scott Roeder tell a jury his slaying of Wichita doctor George Tiller was voluntary manslaughter. Tiller’s colleagues and abortion rights advocates are outraged and fear the court’s actions give a more than tacit approval to further acts of violence.

”This judge has basically announced a death sentence for all of us who help women,” said Dr. Warren Hern of Boulder, Colo., a longtime friend of Tiller who also performs late-term abortions. ”That is the effect of the ruling.”

Just so that we’re really clear on this, just so that everybody gets on the same footing, just so we can skip past the language issues of calling fetuses “unborn children,” understand this: Roeder’s defense, basically, is that he had the right to kill someone based on his right to control what another human being does with her body.

He had the right to control you. And if you asserted that control (which is due to you, one would hope, as a member of the human race–at least the male half is supposed to have bodily autonomy) and enlisted the help of a medical professional, he had the right to kill that professional in order to remove your autonomy.

Of course, “yours” only if you’re female. Which still seems to be a quasi-legal status.

Think of other cases where bodily autonomy might be involved, and wonder to yourselves if they would be able to be entered as legal justifications: But your Honor, I had to kill that abolitionist, she was helping my slave to escape.

If somebody had killed Dr. Kevorkian, would the court allow a justification defense? Even though it would be a lot more warranted than one in the case of the murder of a physician, a man who helped save the lives of many women?

Jill at Feministe has a good explanation of what’s happening, though it hasn’t quite gotten me off the ledge:

I will write more about this later as time allows, but the judge in the Scott Roeder case — Roeder is the man who shot abortion provider George Tiller at Tiller’s church — has ruled that Roeder may present a case for voluntary manslaughter instead of murder. Voluntary manslaughter is a less serious crime than murder, and subject to softer penalties. This doesn’t mean that Roeder is only being charged with voluntary manslaughter; my best guess based on the judge’s comments here is that he doesn’t want this case to be overturned on appeal, and so he’s allowing the jury to consider voluntary manslaughter as a lesser-included offense. Which makes sense.

Except that there are, of course, bigger issues at play. The judge at least rejected Roeder’s proposed “necessity” defense, but a jury will still have the option of giving Roeder a lighter sentence if the defense makes the case that Roeder had an “unreasonable but honest belief that circumstances existed that justified deadly force.” If the jury does buy that defense — and you can bet that Roeder’s team will make the trial about Dr. Tiller and abortion — it lessens the disincentives for other would-be terrorists to take out abortion providers.

Indeed.

So there is no patriarchy, and justice is for all. Just not the all that includes you.

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The View From My Kitchen Window

Categories: all about me, silly blather

Greetings Ducks, from the home office! Which isn’t even really an office, but it is in my home. My kitchen, actually: space here in The Great American Metropolis is at a premium, let me tell you!

Lately it has become an actual office of sorts, because of that gig I mentioned last week, which I do from the comfort of home. Well, relative comfort: while I’m no longer unemployed, I am underemployed; I need to do about 50 hours a week at my current rate to make my monthly expenses. I’m not really complaining…well, I am a bit, because this is way below my former rate, alas.

That’s the economy, folks.

I do have a view from my window, of sorts–it’s on the air shaft between my building and the one next door. Now, this was supposed to be an improvement, way back in the 19th century, over just having buildings cheek-by-jowl; but the reality is that they don’t help all that much. The shafts let in almost no light (in the spring, I sometimes get some light in through the shaft in the afternoon) and they have no draw whatsoever, so you don’t get much in the way of cross-ventilation. And my view is a brick wall.

Still, it’s nice to have an office with a window.

Working from home doesn’t particularly bother me–writer, remember?–though it is a drag to be chained to my chair all day long without being able to run out for a while (I’m on a timeclock, and I’d have to punch out if I was up from my keyboard for too long.) It’s a bit ironic that I should end up with this gig, though (and not just because my brother used to work for them, something I didn’t know until I applied for the job.) Ironic because a lot of trans people end up either wanting a job like this, or having to take a job like this because it’s the only job they can safely do.

Trans folks come in all shapes and sizes; and sometimes those shapes, for whatever reason (most often because the person is still in the middle of transition), are harder for cis people to “peg” as one gender or another. This causes enormous discomfort on the part of the cis person (see unboxedqueer’s groovy post about this today at Below the Belt), which they immediately pass along to the trans person. Because, that’s like the totally fair thing to do, right? I mean, it’s the freak’s, I mean, your problem, right? Right?

Right.

So a lot of trans people have to look for work that doesn’t involve interaction with other poeple. (And yeah, the phone often counts, if you’re MtF–phone voice is the hardest voice to manage.) I’m fortunate enough to have a skill that lets’ me do this and still survive; many other folks aren’t. But it must be their fault, right?

Right.

Back around Halloween a lot of folks like this Onion bit about finding costumes for your effeminate boy. I wasn’t one of them, though–to me, the bit ultimately felt pretty cruel and lost the point of laughing at the bigoted announcers in favor of indulging in some cruelty towards the kids. You know, like…holding people up to your own standards of gender presentation? Which never ever hurts anybody, or makes it hard for them to get a job? Yeah. I much preferred this SNL bit instead:

Homocil Commercial – watch more funny videos

Until you come around.

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And Other Stories in Transphobia (Yawn)

Categories: don't get your panties in a bunch, media tool kit, silly blather, teh tranz

Hey, I haven’t said anything about David Letterman yet!

I mean, not that there’s often much to say about David Letterman, besides he’s mostly a jerk. It’s, you know, what he’s famous for.

But I guess you might have heard about this…

Yeah. OK. Wow, a show hosted by a known jerk (of the douchey, cheating on his wife with interns in a bedroom he had built at the studio just for that purpose kind of way) engages in some cheap-shot transphobia. Yawn. Hand me the remote…

But what’s that you say? Speak up, Straw-Reader-I-am-making-up-for-this-piece! Are you saying that Dave at least sort of respectable towards Ms. Sampson? And that the joke is really on sidekick douchebag Kalter? That I should not, you know, get my panties all in a twist about things, you hysterical trann–sorry, you like to be called a transgenderdamajig now, right?

Sorry, Straw Reader, you’re wrong! A transgendamajig is a drink, not a gender identity, one of the many fascinating cocktails I dreamed up while vacationing on painkillers in Thailand! But you’re also wrong about the joke.

Sure, true to his straightdouche persona, Dave didn’t say anything spiteful about Ms. Sanders. (He also called her a transgendered person, not woman. Asshole.) But the joke wasn’t on Kalter–it was decidedly on Ms. Sampson.

Because, you see, at heart this was a gay joke. (Amazing! Letterman homophobic too? Whodathunkit?) Kalter is upset because he slept with a “man,” not a transgendered woman. At heart, this bit was calling Ms. Sanders a man.

Which is pretty much the definition of transphobia.

I of course, don’t watch any of the talk shows myself–I really could care less about the latest vapid anecdote or stupid plug a celebrity comes on to talk about. (And even The Daily Show is wearing thin on me these days.) Instead, when not reading Russian novels in French or French movies in Russian, I watch Monty Python reruns. Because our world is so surreal nowadays that they seem positively normal.

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Now Let Us Praise Complicated Women, And Condemn Them While We’re At It

Categories: Humorless Tranny™, tiger beatdown rocks, transphobia: now in blog format, your RDA of intersectionality

So Mary Daly died.

(You might have heard about it.)

I don’t have much to say about Mary Daly, really. I haven’t read anything by her (because I am a bad feminist, or at least a lazy one, or at least somebody made very theory-adverse thanks to my graduate studies in English.) I’m not really sure if I’d heard her name before she died (because I am a bad…oh, you know.)

But I was utterly unsurprised to find out that she was a Second Wave radical feminist who, you know, hated me.

(Well, one thing surprised me: she was Janice Raymond’s thesis adviser. Janice Raymond! And no, I’m not going to link to anything about her–if you’re here, you should know about her; if you don’t, use the bloody Google.)

As I said over at the ol’ Tiger Beatdown today, it’s clear that Mary Daly gave a lot of women a new way of looking at the world; that in a very real sense, she liberated them. And the glowing testimonials of people who knew her–about how generous she was with her time, how she helped other women writers and feminists, how she created, in the truest sense of the word, sisterhood with her fellow women.

But I just can’t be all that happy about it, because she also wanted to deny me all those things; because to Mary Daly, I would never have been woman or even feminist enough.

And this doesn’t even touch on the criticisms Audre Lorde leveled at her of ignoring the voices of women of color except as anecdotes, a bit of “color” for a chapter mostly about white women–something Daly never publicly cleared up, at least not while Lorde was alive–or her belief that the male of the species should be reverse decimated (leave one in ten alive) and those secluded in zoos.

And yet a lot of women I admire got their start in feminism with her.

And yet she thought I was a monster.

And yet she was dismissive towards women of color.

And….and what? There was a lot of good Mary Daly did. There was a lot of bad as well. How do we sort this out? How can you honor the legacy of people who were noble in some ways, and wicked in others?

How do you make sense of human lives?

Me, I dunno; like I said, I never read her. But her fame should not expunge her failings.

(And if you want a balanced, no-nonsense appraisal of her good and bad, Sady has it.)

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Bonne Année

Categories: all about me, we apologize for the inconvenience

Greetings, ducks, and Happy New Year. It’s been a while, I know. And I’m fine, mostly, now. But I wasn’t before.

We don’t like to talk about depression much as a culture, although to some degree we’ve destigmatized it: I mean, here in the Great American Metropolis, everyone jokes about being in therapy or on antidepressants. Jokes are made; sticom plots revolve around a character’s mental health; and we wonder if Ziggy had some Prozac if his life would improve and he’d finally buy some pants.

But we don’t talk about it, or when we do, when we really sit down and talk about it, all the old stigmas come back. People will whisper about someone being really depressed; there’s an uneasiness around the whole subject, a certain trepidation about approaching them, a certain, well, fear: of driving them to suicide? Of catching it yourself? I don’t know.

What happened to me is that the chronic low-grade depression I’ve carried with me since before puberty flared up, as it does sometimes: but first it just gradually began to increase, helped along, no doubt, by my decision to go off antidepressants over the summer. Sure, I got worse, but gradually, gradually, and I couldn’t tell how badly I was slipping, until I came back from San Francisco without a steady source of income for the first time in something like six years. And even then, I was doing OK, because I had a line on a job that wasn’t ideal but would hold me while I retrenched. And I really thought I was going to get the job. Until I went up and had a horrible series of interviews.

And then I decidedly wasn’t OK anymore.

Some of what happened next you no doubt can glean from my BTB post last week: I went to the psych ER, after a series of humiliations I got some meds that my insurance will actually cover, and if I’m not out of the woods, I can at least see the trees thinning out. And tomorrow I start a gig that while not ideal, will at least hold me while I retrench. (And keep working from home.)

But I was going to talk about my depression…and that’s just it. It’s so hard to talk about: if you don’t have it, it’s hard to understand. It’s nothing like being sad, except when it is; it’s nothing like feeling listless, except when it is; it’s nothing like feeling hopeless, except when it is–and most of the time you feel at least some of those symptoms all at once. William Styron called it a “brain storm” and that comes close, except in my case there isn’t a feeling of storm like violence: just a hopelessness, a feeling that everything I do is futile, that everything is just too hard for me to accomplish and that if I were lucky, I’d just not wake up in the morning. And sometimes, sometimes you just want the pain and hopelessness to go away so badly that you think about making sure you won’t wake up in the morning.

I think until you can contemplate the idea of destroying yourself–of making a permanent end to all your problems–and think it a good thing, a sensible thing, to no longer care about the pain you would inflict on others, just so long as your own would go away–until you’ve hit that point, then no, you don’t know what depression really feels like. I’ve had some sort of suicidal ideation around once a month since I was at least ten years old. And I almost never think seriously about it; when I do, when I get really serious in my own mind, that’s when I know to go down to a doctor and do something about it. And I’m lucky: most of the time, there is something to be done, and something I can access to help me. Not everyone is so lucky.

Yet strangely enough, I don’t want this post itself to be depressing. Dawn is breaking on my battered mental landscape; my Significant Other of Variable and Often Fabulous Gender spent the weekend with me, and cheered me up. I have a source of income again, and believe it or not, a line on some more interviews.

I’m writing again. And that’s a light all of its own.

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Coming Out, Staying In

Categories: below the belt, i get around

New Below the Belt content!

I recently had an encounter with our mental health system. (I’m fine. Now.) I don’t have to tell you that almost any encounter with our health system is embarrassing; that seems to be the state of American healthcare. But what do you think the frosting on my mortification cake–the little extra bit of humiliation to go with the spongy cake of being put in a room with no sharp corners and the delectable pudding filling of despair that having them take my belt away proved to be?

Having to out myself. Three times–once to the triage nurse, once to the nurse who took my vitals, and once to the doctor.

 Avanti!

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Adventures in Transition: Inadequacy Edition

Categories: adventures in transition, all about me, the tiniest violin in the world

Hola, ducks! Did you know that I’m currently between positions? Yes, tis true that I work as a consultant when not writing pithy internet ramblings. But while I was out in California, I lost my main client in a move of wonderful class upon their part. Wev. Anyway, did you know we are in a recession, despite what the economic gurus tell us? I sure do–I’m reminded of it daily as I watch my bank balances dwindle! And also, have I mentioned that I seem to be getting depression for Christmas! And now you are too, if you’ve read this far?

This is all preamble.

So, okay. I had an interview on Friday. Which didn’t go so well…but I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start again.

So I had an interview on Friday. It was my third interview with these people, but the first one that would be face-to-face; I had survived two phone interviews prior to this, and passed the little “mess around with this database” test they’d sent me with flying colors.

That in itself is an accomplishment of sorts–not the application thing, I do that for a living after all; the phone interview bit. Now, you may not know this, but there’s only one kind of transsexual whose voice is helped by transitioning, and I am not that kind of a transsexual! Or to put it more bluntly, estrogen doesn’t do anything to your voice. (Testosterone will, so FTMs get a break there, but–as I well know–the effects are permanent.)

So back when I was transitioning–actually, just before I was sure I was going to transition–I began to work with an actress who gave voice lessons on finding a less obviously masculine way for me to talk. Not that I have anything against deep voices in women! Just, um, it was a way to make sure I would get outed. I didn’t have a James Earl Jones bass or anything, but my voice pretty clearly marked me as trans.

The best part of the experience was that I was her first trans client, so we sort of assembled our own course in how to do this out of things on the internet, a DVD I had, and whatever seemed to work for us. After a while, we just spent half the class talking to each other, which was a great way to get comfortable using my new voice.

Thus, passing two phone interviews was not a small accomplishment.

Anyway. The face to face interview, which was not only face to face but a state away. And potentially guarded my economic future! After being so confident on the phone interviews, I suddenly found myself…inadequate. Because:

–I needed a new suit, since I’d gained some weight.

–Jeez, skirt or slacks? What was more appropriate?

–It turns out I needed a new suit that was two sizes larger than I normally wear, because I’ve gained so much weight. Sigh.

–I began to worry: would I come on too aggressive?

–I began to worry: would I not be aggressive enough?

–Or too feminine?

–Or not feminine enough?

–Or for that matter, would they immediately think I was trans?

–Or pull a credit bureau on me and know I was trans (I’ve been lazy about getting every account I own fixed.)

–Even if they hired me, would they hit me with the “female discount”?

–Do they want a woman in their IT department?

–Was I just the “diversity interview”?

Now, ducks, I know a lot of my female readers are somewhere between bemusement and rage at going over that list. I know it sounds whiny. It is whiny. But let me just say: I knew all this stuff going in, and I decided to transition anyway. I don’t have any regrets about that, and I’m not saying I should have any special treatment.

But. This was the first time a lot of these things hit home for me all at once. And it was definitely a different experience for me to think of this stuff before an interview. (Also, I should note that I hadn’t been on a serious interview in over six years–advantage to consulting–so there was that factor as well.) And the inadequacy I felt…was pretty massive. There was so much to be afraid of, so many traps I felt like I could blunder into just based on how I looked.

And you, my beloved female ducks, are more than welcome to chorus “Duh!” in my general direction right now. And I deserve it.

Anyway, as far as all that stuff went, I think things went fine–I looked professional, I don’t think anyone read me, and I think I struck the right amount of aggression/femininity/whatever. It was the tech questions I whiffed on that probably sunk me! So there you have it.

But at least it was beautiful out in the snow today–the sky a hazy pastel blue at sunset, the air clear and all edges sharp-edged, the snow that light twilit blue you get at sunset. That helps. Even if it won’t pay the rent.

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